by Meli Raine
“I need to get home,” I say simply.
Silas helps me up the achingly long set of stairs, Drew following slowly behind us, talking in a low voice to someone on his phone the entire walk up. Once we get to the car, he turns off the phone and climbs in the driver’s seat, leaving Silas to help me get situated in the back.
We’re barely buckled into our seat belts as Drew pulls the car out of the parking spot, Silas clearing his throat with meaning. Drew ignores him. I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the seat, mind spinning.
I can still taste him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I do that? How could I kiss the guy who betrayed me?
But I did.
And I liked it.
“Did you really call Stacia and have her sent to the Grove?” I ask.
Silas gives Drew a confused look.
“I called her off,” Drew snaps.
I’m relieved. Then disappointed.
I can’t even feel anything in binary. One or the other. Everything is both.
Stacia’s offer to be there by phone shoots through my mind as Drew maneuvers the black, unmarked car onto the highway. We speed up. So does my heart. I remember Stacia’s office, the muted pastels and beach scenes on pictures designed to calm and never excite. Maybe she was right.
Maybe I’m not ready.
Wait. Wait. It’s been a day. I remind myself. One day. One big, big day.
Tomorrow will be calmer.
It has to be, right?
Nothing could be worse than today.
Chapter 23
He tastes like cotton candy and campfires, like smoky wood and the sweet ache of a kiss that you want to feel all day, every day, for the rest of your life. By the time the first kiss ends we’re breathless, the heat from our exhales turning into a cocoon.
My body craves him, drawing close, arms around his waist and holding him so he can’t leave me. Rock solid, with muscles rooted in place, he isn’t going anywhere. I relax and tip my chin up for another kiss. I’m rewarded with fire and ice, with the warm wetness of a determined mouth that needs to tell me without words how much I mean to him.
Now we’re naked, entwined in silk sheets on an endless, soft bed, the brush of his hair-covered legs against my own smooth calves so different, so refreshing. I touch my nose to his chest and inhale, the deep breath bringing him into me, memorizing his scent like an imprint.
His hot palms cup my breasts, making me moan his name.
The wind swirls outside the open window, and large, jagged rock formations bounce moonlight into the room, like an otherworldly mirror that illuminates the perfection of this ethereal moment. I look into his eyes and frown, puzzled by what I see.
They are empty.
My wrists whip behind me like someone retracted them, like I am a mechanical beast with a button you push to make me move in ways that aren’t quite human. My shoulders scream with pain from the sudden change and now I am on my knees on the bed, legs spread by ice-cold fingers that feel like knife blades against my skin.
I scream, but no sound emerges, because my mouth is filled with rope.
And the eyeless man reaches between my lips and pulls the end of the hemp ribbon, tugging as thousands of feet of shiny cloth come out of me, endless, eternal, infinite, like lies lined up in the weave of the fiber, queued for all time.
I can’t breathe. Can’t gag can’t move can’t think—
But worse.
I can’t die.
SLAP!
“Jesus, Lindsay, wake up!” The voice is high, feminine, a sound I know but haven’t heard in so long. My cheek burns with the strike, the edge of her fingernails scraping against my earlobe. My nose fills with a perfume I remember, and I lean forward from instinct, burying my cheek in the soft bosom of a body that I expect will comfort me.
She goes rigid.
A hand pats my hair like one comforts a stranger, like tapping the beat of a song. “It’s okay,” my mother soothes. “You were just having a nightmare.” Her French scent is a mix of rose and cotton, of sugar and covert cigarettes, and as I sniffle into her chest I know she doesn’t really want me in her arms, but I am going to take what I can get while I can.
Scraps have to be enough.
“Mama,” I say, willing my body to relax, ignoring my throbbing cheekbone. I haven’t called her Mama since I was four years old.
“You’re awake. Good.” She peels me off her and puts two feet of distance between us on the bed. Her eyes meet mine and they’re filled with worry. She’s wearing no makeup, her face a shiny sheen. A recent chemical peel? A new overnight moisturizer? Who knows. She looks like a baby owl, without her fake eyelashes.
She reminds me of Aunt Karen, her sister. Mom makes fun of Karen for “letting herself go,” even though Aunt Karen runs 5Ks and is a defense lawyer in Iowa, Mom’s home state. Karen doesn’t do Botox or chemical peels or liposuction or any of the other procedures Mom has used to keep herself young.
Young looking, at least.
Right now, she resembles my aunt just enough that I throw my hands over my face and burst into tears.
Mom sighs, her hand on my knee.
“You were screaming about a rope, Lindsay,” she says softly, leaning forward. “Were you dreaming about hanging yourself?”
“God, no.”
“Because that would be so selfish,” she adds.
There’s nothing quite like a mother’s love.
In her hand, I see a white smartphone, her long, burgundy fingernails gripping it like a weapon. “Should I call Dr. Coulter?” she asks.
“Dr. Who?”
“Dr. Coulter. Your therapist from the island.” The expression on her face makes it clear she thinks I’m acting like a petulant teen. I have no idea who this Dr. Coulter is, though.
“Dr. Coulter—oh!” It hits me. “You mean Stacia. No. No! No, Mom. I don’t need her.” Why does everyone insist on calling Stacia the second I have a problem?
Mom makes an incredulous sound.
I press my hand against my heart. “I’m fine.”
“You’re anything but fine, Lindsay. I heard those screams. You were still dreaming when I walked in, clawing at your mouth.”
“Where’s my security detail?” I ask slowly, ignoring her words. If I challenge her, she’ll turn it all around and make it my fault, so why bother. I know the drill. Mom cares about Daddy’s political career. Until the incident four years ago, she cared about my future.
Now it’s all about damage control.
And I’m the damage.
“Drew? I told him I’d handle this. It’s my first chance to see you.” She shakes her head slowly. “It’s a shame it has to be like this.”
I draw in a shaky breath. My covers feel like handcuffs. “Right.” I shudder, trying to slough off the remaining arousal that came from the beginning of the dream, and the horror that ended it.
“I’m glad to see you,” I say automatically. Robotically. She gives me a sharp glance but her face relaxes into something close to a smile. I see she’s had her lips done recently. Is that where she was? At a spa for the kind of treatments where you don’t want to be in the public eye for a week or two while the swelling goes down?
I’ve checked off a box with my comment. She leans forward and gives me a kiss on the very same cheek she slapped. “I’m so glad to see you, too. See with my own eyes how you’re doing.”
“What time is it?” I fight the urge to ask her why she couldn’t come yesterday, or visit me at the Island, or—a thousand ors she could have done, but didn’t.
I don’t ask because I already know the answer.
And it hurts.
“Five thirty in the morning,” she says, stroking my hurt cheek. “You need more beauty sleep.”
So do you, I think. Like, a thousand years.
Something clicks for me. “You’re here because of tomorrow’s meeting?”
“You mean today’s meeting?”
I ha
ve to give her that. I give a rueful laugh. “Yeah. Right.”
Her eyes cloud with something deeper than worry as she looks me over, searching for something I’m pretty sure isn’t there.
“Yes. I’m here for the meeting.”
I yawn. “Just another election campaign announcement, I guess.”
Her eyes flicker with something worse than I saw a moment ago.
I peer at her. “Mom?”
She gives me a smile that does not reach her eyes. “Something like that, dear. You sleep. You’ll learn more in a few hours.” And with that she stands, gliding out of the room like she’s on wheels, the edges of her long nightgown fluttering behind her like fallen angel wings.
Leaving me wide awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell that was all about.
Sleep finally claims me just as the birds begin chirping outside my window.
Mercifully, I do not dream about rope again.
Chapter 24
Daddy’s office is filled with people who look like they’re all attending a funeral.
Drew and Silas, in their black suits and with their blank expressions, could be pallbearers.
“Who died?” I joke, walking in carrying the biggest cup of coffee I could find in the kitchen. Given my weird nightmare and lack of sleep, today caffeine is going to have to be my best friend. This is my third cup already, and it’s only 9:30 a.m.
If I could hook up an IV right now, I would.
“Quite the opposite!” Daddy announces, looking around the large conference table on the other side of the room. There’s Anya, Mom, Drew and Silas standing at the edge, and three people I’ve never seen before. Two women. One man.
No smiles.
A prickly feeling starts at the back of my neck, under my breasts, right where my navel brushes against the button on my skirt. Something here is...off. Strange.
Wrong.
“Marshall Josephs, this is my daughter, Lindsay. Lindsay, honey, Marshall’s been assigned to work with you on reputation management.”
Marshall stands, showing himself to be the height of an NBA player, with hands the size of a turkey platter. He’s super blonde and balding, somewhere between my age and Daddy’s, with bright honey-colored eyes and the look of a man who is used to talking his way out of messes.
Exactly the kind of man Daddy has on his campaigns.
And he’s wearing a black wool suit like Drew and Silas, only his tie has tiny little images of a popular kid’s cartoon character on it. I shake his hand and give him a fake smile.
Daddy beams.
Off to a good start.
“Let’s get the introductions out of the way, shall we?” Daddy declares.
I walk over to Mom and stick out my hand. “Hi! I’m Lindsay Bosworth. And you are?”
Mom’s fury flickers in the twitch of her nostril for three tenths of a second, and then she laughs, eyes glowing with manufactured amusement. “Ah, Lindsay. We’ve got our old girl back.”
That prickly feeling intensifies when Drew shifts his weight and gives me a look that says I need to be prepared for something that’s coming.
But I know what’s coming.
Daddy’s running for senate again. Duh. This isn’t some big surprise.
We all stop laughing from my stupid joke and Daddy introduces me to Marcy Boorstein and Victoria Ahlmann, both part of Marshall’s “team” assigned to me. Three handlers for reputation management? Huh.
Four years ago I had zero.
We all take our seats at the massive conference table, Daddy at the head, Anya to his right, Mom across from him. Daddy clears his throat and gives Anya a look that is just close enough to being nervous that my heart stops.
Drew gives me a sharp look that makes my stomach drop.
What the hell is this meeting about?
Daddy doesn’t do nervous.
“Lindsay, as you know, I’ve spent the last ten years in office, representing the state of California in the senate.”
I frown. Daddy sounds like he’s giving a press conference to me.
“And I’ve been very satisfied in this role, but it’s time for a change.”
I go cold and hold my breath. I wasn’t expecting this.
“You’re not running for senate again?” Relief floods me, filling my veins with heat. Oh, sweetness. I won’t be in the spotlight. I can come home and pick up the pieces of my ruined life without being under a microscope.
“No.”
I just nod, trying not to show any emotion.
He has two more years in the senate and I know as soon as the press knows I’m home, I’ll have to deal with publicity, but this is such good news. I open my mouth to say whatever everyone expects me to say, but Mom cuts me off with a hand across the table, her chilled palm covering the back of my hand.
This morning, she is wearing her eyelashes. Full makeup, no product spared. Mom looks ten years younger than her natural age if you don’t get too close. Right now, though, I see every crease and crevice, every makeup line.
“Honey,” she says, breathy with excitement. “Your father is about to declare his campaign for President of the United States.”
I fall off the edge of the world.
You think the world is round, but it turns out to be covered with unexpected cliffs, sheer drop-offs that appear at the worst possible times, making you fall into outer space, gravity long gone as you scream into a vacuum.
And no one can hear you.
“Huh?” I say, the sound like you make when someone gut punches you. Drew’s eyes meet mine, and his eyebrows crease with compassion, his expression saying one thing:
I tried to warn you.
“President,” Daddy says, one half of his mouth quirking up in a smile. “I’ve spent the better part of the last year fundraising, gathering behind-the-scenes support and testing my ideas with various voter sample groups. With the right coalition, good funds, and no major scandals, I’ve got a strong chance.”
Mom’s facade cracks for a split second as Daddy says the word scandal, her eyes floating to look at me.
Oh, no.
I suddenly understand why Marshall, Marcy and Victoria are here.
They’re my new Stacia.
In triplicate.
And I’m the scandal.
Chapter 25
I plaster a big, fake smile on my face. “Congratulations, Daddy!” I squeal, jumping up with legs that feel like melting icicles. My arms go around his neck, my nose pressed into his collar, and I smell his aftershave. It hasn’t changed. All these years, Daddy’s gone from being a district attorney to running for the U.S. House of Representatives to the U.S. Senate and now he’s running for President. He hasn’t changed his cologne.
I feel like I’m four years old, instantly, as I inhale during the hug. In a way, I am. This announcement makes me feel immature. Like a burden. A child who can’t be controlled.
Scandal.
Drew avoids eye contact with me, looking anywhere but at my face. I’m avoiding him, except that my peripheral vision is too good. Mom beams at us. Anya has the same fake smile on her face that I have. Tears fill my eyes even though I fight them.
Suddenly, I get it.
I’ve been brought home because I am a prop. I am nothing but a thing you put on a stage because the performance requires it. Daddy’s role is potential president. Mom’s role is potential first lady.
My role?
Shut up, smile, look pretty. Show the world that Senator Bosworth is a family man who has his child’s respect. Who is the authority. Who has a loving relationship with his daughter. Who is compassionate and kind, as good in real life as he will be leading the nation.
I’m a line in a script.
And I’m going to play the role of my life.
Except there's this horrible little stain in my past. Like a skid mark in a pair of underwear.
I stifle a hysterical laugh at the thought and bury it, making the sound seem like too much emotion. Daddy pulls
back and looks at me, searching my face, assessing whether I’m okay. People say I look like a feminine version of him. We have similar hair, and eyes that are the same shape, a little cat-like. My eyes are rounder. His are more guarded. He’s analyzing me. It occurs to me that ever since he ran for Senate ten years ago, I’ve never seen him look at me without trying to figure something out.
Ten years.
That’s a long time.
“We have a problem, kiddo,” he says gently, holding my shoulders, peering into my eyes. “Your...incident.”
My blood runs cold.
“My incident.” I don’t phrase it like a question. And the emphasis on my is intended.
He nods. I know Daddy. He didn’t miss my inflection. Ignoring it meets his needs, so he’ll pretend I didn’t say it. “We did so much damage control four years ago, sweetie. You weren’t here to witness it.” He squares his shoulders, as if bracing for a blow. “It’s time to talk about it. Strategize. Prepare.”
Great. My gang rape is now an incident that requires more strategic management than a war. Maybe even more than Black Friday sales.
“And everything we discuss in here is absolutely confidential,” Mom says, her voice smooth but menacing. I’m not sure if her words are aimed only at me.
I look around the room as Daddy steps back to his seat at the head of the table. From the looks on some faces, I’m pretty sure Mom’s target was wide. Like buckshot.
And everyone got hit with a little shrapnel.
“Of course,” I reply, trying to match her tone. My skin is on fire. There’s a coffee machine on a buffet table against the wall. Turning away from the table, I prepare a cup, searching for cream. There is none.
I can tell Anya’s watching me, because she stands quickly and announces, “Let me get cream. Sorry. We used it all.” Her swift exit involves being watched carefully by Mom, her eyes tracking Daddy’s assistant, narrowing as Anya disappears out the door.
